first week were normal and reassuring—with a single exception. The second PCR test from one day’s sample came back positive. It said she had Ebola virus in her blood.
It was wrong. The provisional result gave Warfield a fright but that mistake was soon corrected by further testing. Woops, no, sorry. Never mind.
Another kerfuffle arose when USAMRIID’s leadership realized that Warfield suffered rheumatoid arthritis, the medications for which might have suppressed her immune system. “That became this huge controversy,” she told me. Certain honchos of the institute’s top leadership acted surprised and angry, although the condition was clearly on file in her medical records. “They had all these teleconferences with all these experts. Everybody wanted to know why someone that was immunocompromised was working in the BSL-4 suites.” There was in fact no evidence that her immune system wasn’t working fine. The commander of USAMRIID never made a personal visit to see her in the Slammer, not even through the glass, but he sent her an email announcing that he was suspending her access to BSL-4 labs and impounding her badge. It was a “slap in the face,” added onto her other miseries and worries, Warfield said.
After more than two weeks of vampiric blood draws and reassuring tests, Warfield began feeling guardedly confident she wouldn’t die of Ebola. She was weak and weary, her veins were weary too, so she asked that the blood sampling be reduced to a daily minimum. She got another unsettling jolt one evening as she undressed, discovering red spots on her arm and wondering whether they might herald the start of Ebola’s characteristic rash. She had seen similar spots on lab-infected monkeys. That night she lay awake, obsessing about the spots, but they turned out to be nothing. She had Ambien to help her sleep. She had a stationary bike in case she wanted exercise. She had TV and Internet and a phone. As the weeks passed, the terrifying element of her situation faded slowly beneath the good news and the tedium.
She stayed sane with help from her mother and a few close friends (who could visit her often), her husband (who couldn’t), her father (who remained off the visitor list so he could look after her son, in case everyone else got infected and quarantined and then died), and a certain amount of nervous laughter. Her son, whose name is Christian, was just three at the time and barred by age regulations from entering USAMRIID. Warfield judged he was too young, in any case, to be burdened with knowing exactly what was going on; she and her husband explained to Christian simply that mom would be absent for three weeks doing “special work.” She was given a video linkup, a sort of Slammer Cam, through which she could see and talk with her loved ones on the outside. Hi, it’s me, Kelly, live from Ebolaville, how was your day? Diane Negley, besides supplying the morning donut and coffee, heroically smuggled in one beer every Friday night. Food was a problem at first, there being no cafeteria at USAMRIID, until the Army realized it had funds that could be spent on supplying a patient in the Slammer with carryout. After that, Warfield had her choice each evening among Frederick’s best: Chinese, Mexican, pizza. And she could share with her visiting friends, such as Negley, who would sit in the blind spot beneath the security camera, flip up her face shield, and eat. These high-carb consolations led Warfield and her pals to invent a game: “Ebola Makes You . . .” and then fill in the blank. Ebola makes you fat. Ebola makes you silly. Ebola makes you diabetic from too much chocolate ice cream. Ebola makes you appreciate little joys and smiles in the moment.
On the morning of March 3, 2004, door 537 opened and Kelly Warfield walked out of the Slammer. Her mother and (by special exemption) Christian were in the waiting room down the corridor. She took her son home. That afternoon she returned to USAMRIID, where her friends and colleagues threw her a coming-out party with food, testimonials, and balloons. Several months later, after a period of suspended access, a battery of tests on her immune system, a somewhat humiliating regimen of retraining and supervision, and a bit of persistent struggle, she regained her clearance for the BSL-4 suites. She could return to tickling the tail of the dragon that might have killed her.